


100 Themes of Sherlock

by Magnus_McKay



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 100 Themes Challenge, Angst, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Fluff, Friendship, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 05:40:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnus_McKay/pseuds/Magnus_McKay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>100 prompts for 100 mini-fics which tell the story in one big arc! Updated almost as soon as I've finished a new one! Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Life

Sherlock had been planning this for a long time, his craving for home and for the normality of it becoming something that overrode his usually logical thought. To sleep in his own bed, to rest on his own sofa, to get back to a ‘normal’ life. Yes, that would be something grand indeed.

In a moment of weakness, Sherlock made it to a snow draped Baker Street under cover of darkness. It looked much the same as always, save for the fact that there were no lights at the window, not even a fire fading to embers. Baker Street looked abandoned, but he knew inside its shell was a life he had left behind.

Going round the back through the dark and cold alleyway, he wormed his way through his own bedroom window, swinging himself in through the frosted frame and landing like a cat on the floorboards. He was quiet, creeping towards the soft bed and running his hand over the soft sheets that felt like down to him. Nothing had changed in here, nothing at all, it was almost exactly the same as it had been the day he’d left it.

Sighing, Sherlock sank into it with a soft moan of approval, not even taking his coat off as he fell asleep, curled up a tiny little ball with heat slowly returning to his chilled fingers and toes.

John closed his eyes, trying to get back to sleep after another paralysing nightmare. He lay quiet in the dark for a long time, staring intently at the light that danced over his eyelids with every car that crawled up a snowy Baker Street at funeral procession speed. Still, sleep didn’t come to him, no matter how much he tried to trick himself into relaxing. 

This time of year was hard. It reminded John of Christmas with Sherlock, listening to him play violin and drinking sherry with Mrs Hudson by the fire. This year, she’d popped up, but there was no sherry and the flat remained quiet.

Sitting up, he gave a sigh of annoyance and got out of bed, his hair in disarray and his eyes ringed with red. He yawned and pottered down the stairs, grumbling to himself as he set the kettle going, tightening his dressing gown around him to keep the keen chill of the room out. 

Was he going mad, or could he hear something? A snoring sound, soft and rhythmic. No, surely not. It was the boiler, he told himself, pouring hot water into a mug and then frowning again. Boilers didn’t make that sort of sound. His eyes widened and he flicked the kettle off to hear it better. No, that really was snoring. Coming from Sherlock’s room.

Casting his eyes around, John armed himself with a heavy bottomed pan, creeping along the hall to the bedroom, frowning at the chill of the wind from the open window, a flurry of snow dampening the carpet. Redoubling his grip on the frying pan, he eased the door open and lifted it a bit higher. If this was a burglary, the thief would get quite a shock when John brought the pan down on their head.

There was a mound in the bed, curled in on itself and snoring gently. John swallowed, enraged by the desecration of Sherlock’s memory. He had dealt with the savage e-mails from people who had read about Sherlock in the papers, the nasty letters from some of Sherlock’s previous clients and the graffiti sprayed over Sherlock’s headstone by idiot youths, but this was too fucking far now. 

Advancing on the bed with a face like thunder, John lifted the pan higher, intending to knock the trespasser out and ring Greg to come and lock him up. The mound moved, rolled over and in the dim orange streetlight, the intruders face was illuminated. Sickly pale skin was floodlit with the orange haze of the streetlight, making John gasp in shock and nearly drop the pan.

Sherlock Holmes. 

It was. There was no doubt as to who it was, those cheekbones, that cupid bow of lips! John let out a moan of shock, his legs going wobbly as he let the pan drop to the floor with a clunk. 

Sherlock’s eyes opened wide at the noise, meeting John’s in the strange orange glow. The two stared at each other, dark blue eyes meeting pale blue for the first time in years. Sherlock was off the bed in a flash, catching John in his arms before the small man could swoon in shock. But John was recovering fast, his anger raising again. 

Fingers curling into a fist, John punched Sherlock right in the jaw, still missing his nose and eyes after all this long time. The detective staggered and flopped to the bed, his eyes wide as he looked up at John with his hand over his jaw, bruise gleaming on his jaw already. He looked almost reproachful.

“You son of a bitch!” John roared.

“Now… now, John… calm down.” Sherlock said, holding his hands out and looking apologetic and just a little scared.

John let out an exacerbated noise and his anger faded, closing his eyes as he threw his arms around Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock was shocked with the sudden abundance of John in his arms, uneasy at the physical contact. He gasped and then his arms slowly curled around John’s warm body, realising that this kind of physical contact wasn’t as bad as he thought it was going to be. In fact, it was rather pleasant, a proper welcome home from John.

Explanations and apologies could be made in the weeks to come, but right now, Sherlock was more than happy just to be home and with John again.

“I’m home… I’m home and I’m alive.” he whispered, closing his eyes as John squeezed him tight.


	2. Youth

Normality came sooner than expected to the detective and the army doctor. Of course, the media buzz had been rather muted by Mycroft’s powerful hand, giving John and Sherlock the time to get reacquainted with each other without the clamour of paparazzi and journalists wanting their story exclusively for their newspaper or magazine.

All that Sherlock wanted to do was get back to work, but it seemed that the e-mails he and John were receiving were from well wishers and supporters, with the occasional journalist begging for an interview and offering excessive amounts of money. It was maddening for the pair of them. John was sick to the back teeth of Sherlock lying on the sofa, bemoaning the fact there were no good cases and Sherlock was angered by the stupid e-mails of support, even though some of them were lovely.

John got so sick of Sherlock mooching around the house in nothing but a sheet or the ratty old shirt and pyjama bottoms number, that he decided to take Sherlock out to a coffee shop to get him some fresh air. Sherlock grumbled at first, not really feeling up to going out with no real destination, but when he realised that John wasn’t going to give up, he begrudgingly got dressed. 

They’d been sat outside the little Italian café for less than a half hour before Sherlock got bored. Sighing a little bit, John just rolled his eyes and ate his pastry while Sherlock sipped his second coffee with a little grumble under his breath. He began to profile the café’s visitors and John couldn’t help but smile brightly, listening attentively. He’d really missed this and now he really felt that Sherlock was home for good.

The scream came from a little old lady down the street and John was on his feet as a young mugger yanked her handbag out of her hand and raced off down the street. Sherlock was quicker on the draw though and ran after the mugger, John having to run after him, pausing to check the old lady wasn’t hurt before running after Sherlock for fear he’d get into trouble on his own. 

It had been a long old time since John had done any sort of running other than for the bus, his slightly rounded belly could tell anyone that. He huffed as he rounded a corner, his knees begging for him to stop and his legs shaking like a leaf, his face had gone a beetroot red. He could feel the adrenaline keeping him going, but he began to get the feeling he was too unfit for this, possibly even - God help him - getting too old for this sort of thing.

Rounding the second corner, John ran smack into Sherlock’s back, staggering to keep himself upright. Panting and leaning over to rest his hands on his knees, John looked down at the mugger. Sherlock had knocked him out with a swift right hook.

“Not to worry, John. I’ll ring Lestrade, you just catch your breath.” Sherlock said, hardly even panting or even sweating.

“Ooooh, I’m getting far t-too old for this, Sherlock… running after criminals is something f-for the young.” John panted, holding his side, his cheeks bright red.

The mugger was stirring, rolling over to get up on his feet. John grumbled under his breath and sat on him with a huff of breath to keep him from getting up and running off again.

“Well, at least I have one use.” he muttered, pouting just a little bit.

“Nonsense, John. You just need to get back into shape. When we have a few more cases, then you’ll be as fit as a fiddle in no time.” Sherlock said with a sly smile.

John narrowed his eyes, wishing all of Sherlock’s ducks to die, having to pay attention to pinning the young offender he had sat on. His eyes caught Sherlock’s and he couldn’t help but laugh at the cheeky look on his face, the pair of them falling around laughing as the mugger was taken away.


	3. Content

For Sherlock, it felt like the hateful and boring lull since his return to London might never end. The chase through its streets to save an old lady her handbag had been just a small glint of the true power and control of the criminal underclass, but damn it all if they hadn’t run to ground at the mention of Sherlock Holmes and his miraculous return from the dead.

The hoax e-mails had been a running joke between John and himself to begin with, but now Sherlock saw it as plain rudeness and he got very angry indeed with a number of them he got a day, sending long winded replies before John just closed the laptop lid and said in a gentle manner that one shouldn’t feed the trolls.

Infuriatingly… John was right.

But after sifting through the spam, Sherlock would find a little hope in some of the ones left over. Nothing above a 4 as of yet, but it was getting there. Just infuriatingly slowly for his quick paced mind. There really was only so much sudoku a man could do before going out of his mind.

It came like a hail storm, great long e-mails that were no longer about missing cats, but about missing people and Sherlock snapped up anything above a 6 with a great glee. It made him brighten, become more amenable with John for a start, and soon even Mrs Hudson was getting her usual peck on the cheek and hug before he went rushing off on a case.

John tagged along as often as he could, still weighed down by a lot of the turmoil with what had happened, still trying to rebuild his life after near disaster. He was soon picking up the pace though, the moaning of being ‘too old’ fading to just a little gripe every now and then when Sherlock would take a set of stairs three at a time. He instead bemoaned his short legs and often took the lift instead.

It felt as if life was getting back to normal now. The past was done, it was another country, another world almost. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were a team again, slotting back into their rightful places with comparative ease, like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle or cogs in a clock.

Sherlock was over the moon, John was happy. Life at Baker Street was perfect again. It had been through its winter and tentative spring, now it was blooming with the heavy blossom of summer.


	4. Change

Sherlock had been secretive before, but this was taking the piss. The man was near enough paranoid as he walked through the house of a morning, his dressing gown clutched tight to his body as if it were some soft of protective shield. Sherlock was usually a let loose kind of guy. Hell, the man had been to Buckingham Palace in nothing but a sheet! But now he was dressing himself with care, never showing too much flesh, as if to do so might be some horrible crime.

Of course, John immediately thought something was up, still weary after Sherlock’s ‘little disappearing act’ as they now referred to it. Sherlock was acting suspiciously and John was going to get to the bottom of it.

“What is the matter with you? Clutching that ratty old thing to you like it’s the bloody Turin Shroud.” John sighed, frowning as Sherlock collapsed on the sofa with less of a billow of silk than normal.

“Its nothing.” Sherlock replied, immediately turning his back to the room.

Oh, no… not again. Sherlock wasn’t going to block him out this time. Not on his bloody life. John winced, that was a poor choice of words, even if he hadn’t spoken them aloud.

“Sherlock, I thought we weren’t going to hide secrets from each other. You know, for a change.” John replied, setting his face and folding his arms.

Sherlock was silent. Boy could that man be stubborn at the best of times, but when it came to being personal, he clammed up completely. John took a deep breath and counted to ten inside his head, pretty sure he was damned close to hitting the boiling point of brain.

“Sherlock-”

“John, I don’t want to talk about it!” Sherlock snapped.

“And I don’t want you running off again!”

The words had sounded bitter, but their core was of fear. Fear of Sherlock leaving him on his own again, fear of loosing the best friend he’d ever had in his entire life. It made John hurt. It made him deeply sad.

Sherlock rolled over slowly and fixed John with a look, letting out a sigh and blinking a little bit when he saw how upset it made John. Nervous fingers struggled with the tight knot of the cord around his waist, freeing it. Then the old moth eaten grey shirt came up to show an ugly scar from just under his bellybutton to just below his fifth rib on the left hand side.

“I thought… I thought it would make you unhappy. Because I’m not the same Sherlock I was when I left.” Sherlock said, his eyes front and centre.

John let out a sigh, his hand subconsciously touching the twisted scar on his shoulder. He gave a smile, not overly bright, but friendly and warm.

“Sherlock, its not what scars us that define us. Its our hearts, our minds. You’re no different to when you left. Except maybe the fact you’re a little more obnoxious.” John said, the smile growing.

Sherlock gave a snort of indignation, laced with amusement and put his shirt down. His eyes flicked to John’s then rolled up to the ceiling as he resumed his previous position on the sofa.

“Thank you.” Sherlock said after a little while.

John just smiled and began The Times crossword puzzle.


	5. Dreams

_“This is the best ravioli I’ve ever had!” John said, grinning wide as he looked across the table to Sherlock._

_Sherlock just smiled and drank a strange purple drink that fizzed over the sides of his wineglass. They were floating along quite happily, a few inches off a lovely summer meadow. Somewhere, there were bagpipes playing. If one strained ones ears, it could just be made out on the wind._

_“This is a lovely date, John.” Sherlock said, his voice strangely echoing as the table before them disappeared._

_They were dancing now, the tips of the meadow heather brushing their bare toes and John was laughing loudly. Then the twirling stopped and Sherlock was kissing him._

John woke with a little start, grunting a bit as he turned over. Outside, the bin men went rattling down the street, probably to make more people curse them for the noise and the annoying whistle of the over cheerful guy who drove the noisy contraption.  
  


* * *

 

Sherlock shifted in his sleep, managing to stay asleep even through the racket. He rolled over and sunk into his dream, humming to himself as he pulled the duvet tight to his chest, the corner of it tucked under his chin. He kept moving restlessly, having quite the strange dream.

_Running, running, so much running. John’s hand in his, clammy with sweat and slipping every so often until Sherlock griped it tighter. He didn’t know what he was running from, but it put the fear of God into both of them._

_Sherlock screamed as John’s hand slipped out of his and the doctor fell with a yell. The thing chasing them had him now and John was screaming for Sherlock. Sherlock raced back and out of nowhere he was beating the formless shape over the head with his violin until it hung in tatters in his hand._

_Falling to John’s side, Sherlock scooped the bloody man up and held him tight in his arms. John was pale and bloody, Sherlock was nearly crying._

_“This is just a magic trick…” John whispered, fading fast._

_“No, no! You can’t leave me again!” Sherlock was screaming, but he couldn’t hear himself._

_John was pulling on Sherlock, dragging him down into a deep black pit. Their bodies were pressed together, they were kissing and-_

Sherlock woke in a cold sweat and sat bolt upright, panting hard as he clutched the duvet to his chest. He trembled for a few moments and gave a low groan of discontent as he flopped back to the bed, his brain already coming to life, the dream already fading away until all he could remember was his lips on John’s and the black maw swallowing them up.  
  


* * *

 

John was grumpy this morning, very grumpy. He was on his second cup of tea of the day, sipping it and looking like he’d like to murder the bin men if he could find a way of hiding it from Sherlock.

Sherlock himself was rather quiet, the fear from the dream still present as he sat down on the sofa with a cup of coffee, running both hands through his curls and hugging his head.

“Rough night?” John asked, his voice gravely.

“You could say that. Bin men wake you?” Sherlock’s muffled voice replied.

“Do you even need to ask?”

There was an awkwardness between them that neither of them could quite put their finger on, each of them pondering the fact that they had kissed in their dreams. They knew why they were awkward, but what on earth did the other have to be awkward about? They were sure on one thing. They were both too embarrassed to talk about it.


	6. Pessamistic

“I don’t want tea! Do stop mothering me, Mycroft. I am not a baby… or an invalid.” Sherlock snapped, glaring at his brother as he sat in the low green chair by the fire.

“My goodness,” Mycroft sighed in annoyance, “What on earth is wrong with you?”

“John.”

Mycroft took a deep breath and rolled his eyes. Oh, here we go. The moaning would begin any moment now. How John was treating Sherlock like a child, how John was trying too hard. It was inevitable.

“I’ve been having… thoughts recently on beginning a relationship with John. Other than as a friend.” Sherlock said, matter-of-factly.

Nearly spitting out his tea, Mycroft managed to arrange his face in a neutral expression. That he definitely hadn’t been expecting from his self proclaimed, heartless brother.

“I see. Do continue.” he said smartly.

“I fear things would end badly for us. John is wonderful and he does pique my interest both physically and intellectually. But I fear of losing him. What if I push him away? What if he ends up hating me? What if-”

“Oh, Sherlock! Would you hear yourself? All these ‘what if’s’! Whatever happened with just sticking your neck out and doing something to please yourself?” Mycroft interrupted, his voice tinted with annoyance.

Sherlock had always been a little pessimistic at times. Especially when it was something personal to him. But Sherlock was growing, it had to be said. For a start he hadn’t thrown his teacup in annoyance or violated Mycroft’s ears with a salvo of dreadful screeching from his violin.

Blinking, the younger Holmes began to frown, then sighed as his shoulders dropped in defeat. He looked at his teacup sullenly as if it held all the answers he needed to sort out this mess.

“Oh, for goodness sake. Its time for you to fight your own battles, Sherlock. I am done mothering you, as you said. But I will give you one word of advice…” Mycroft got to his feet and hooked his umbrella over his arm, “Make sure he feels the same first.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, then huffed a breath and sipped his tea, ignoring his brother as he left.


	7. Pirate

Sherlock had been in a mood for weeks and John just couldn’t understand it at all. They were drowning in cases almost, but Sherlock still had a terrible grumpy nature to him whenever there was a natural lull in things.

John’s birthday was coming up and he had been planning a quiet night out for himself and a few friends, Sherlock included. With a few last minute changes of plan, John had everything sorted.

“What is this?” Sherlock asked, the evening of the night out.

In his hands was a hanger covered with a protective bag. John looked up from his laptop and tilted his head, smiling faintly to himself.

“Your outfit for tonight.” John said, flicking his eyes back to his laptop.

“No, absolutely not,” Sherlock exclaimed, his face flushed, “I did not agree to a fancy dress code!” 

“Oh, just shut up and put it on… you never know, it might cheer you up.”

“Nonsense…” Sherlock snorted, looking at the hanger as if it might bite him.

“Oh, go on, Sherlock. Let your hair down. It’ll be fun, I promise.” John tempted.

Sherlock huffed a breath and unzipped the protector, his eyebrows shooting up and a quizzical look on his pale face as he took a rather elegant pirate outfit out. He couldn’t help but get a giddy look of excitement in his eyes that stemmed for a childhood that had been deeply set in tales of Bluebeard and Long John Silver.

John smiled and tilted his head, closing his laptop with a click as Sherlock played with one of the little gold buttons on the fine velvet coat.

“So… what do you think? We’re all going as pirates.” John said softly.

Looking up at John, Sherlock gave him a little smile and a narrow of the eyes. He’d been pressured into this, but he was rather forgiving with the rather fine outfit in his hand. Sighing over dramatically, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Oh, all right!” he huffed, not sounding a bit annoyed, even though he was pretending he was.

John just gave a small smile as Sherlock swept off to change. He would look marvellous in the floaty shirt and blue velvet jacket with silver banding. He would cut a fine figure beside John tonight, that was for sure.

What the recalled of the evening, it had been loud, rather raucous and Sherlock had been quite a shocker with his foul mouth and his drinking habit. As he slurred to John later, he was just staying in character as a pirate captain, even though his tricorn hat was sat jauntily on his curls.

It made John glad to see Sherlock like this, and though the both of them would sport the most monumental hangover from the nights partying, they could both say it was the most fun they’d had in a very long time.


	8. Novel

The e-mail had arrived around ten minutes ago and John was reading it for the sixth time, still not quite able to believe it. He was frozen in place, his tea hovering at his lip but remaining undrunk.

“John? John… snap out of it.” Sherlock called, snapping his fingers in front of John’s face.

Shaking his head, John looked up at Sherlock with huge eyes that snapped back into focus, blinking wildly for a moment before letting out the longest of breaths, one he’d been holding onto for so long that it had made him a little giddy.

“I’ve been approached by a book company. They… they want me to write up my stories and print them. In a proper book.” John said, his voice a little faint.

Mrs Hudson and Greg had both complimented him on his writing, but he just ran a silly little blog! It wasn’t exactly Shakespeare. It was just a way to tell people about Sherlock’s amazing life and wonderful adventures. He couldn’t believe anyone could be interested enough to spend money on a book that he’d written. Who the hell would buy it, save Mrs Hudson and perhaps a few guys at the Yard to find out if they were mentioned?

“A book? About me?” Sherlock said, turning the laptop so he could read the e-mail for himself.

Sherlock looked quite excited, a bright gleam to his eyes and the look on his face like a puppy dog who had just had a ball thrown for it.

“About us.” John corrected giving an annoyed frown.

“But it will mainly be about me. I solve all the cases after all…”

“And what the fuck am I? The bleeding tea boy?” 

“Essentially.”

“Do you have any idea how much of an arsehole you sound right now?” John snapped, snatching his laptop back and slammed it closed.

Sherlock frowned a little and gave John a slightly sour look, his lips becoming a thin line of anger. He was only telling the bloody truth. Why was he getting it in the bloody neck?

Heaving a sigh, John’s face softened and he looked up into Sherlock’s eyes. He chewed his lip hard, a little loose skin coming away between his tooth. He looked deeply conflicted and Sherlock calmed down too. It would do no good to aggravate John’s mood any more.

“Fuck. What should I do, Sherlock? Do you want everything out there? All our dirty little secrets?” John asked softly.

Shoulders dropping, Sherlock tilted his head and swung his body to sit back beside John, putting his feet on the coffee table while he thought. He was quiet for quite a while, then took a sharp breath in.

“Perhaps not all our secrets, John. I would like to keep some air of mystery about me.” Sherlock grinned, flicking his eyes to John to give his silent permission.

John gave a snort and laughed loudly, throwing his head back. Sherlock even joined in, a deep baritone rumbling in his chest. Letting out a long breath through pursed lips, John opened his laptop again and his fingers flew across the keyboard as he typed his reply. It didn’t take him long, not like it used to when he first started this writing lark, tapping away at the keys with his first fingers and sticking his tongue out to the side in concentration. The remembrance made him grin to himself.

Licking his lips, his finger hovered over the mouse for a moment, not sure if he should send it or not. It was going to be a lot of work. Soft, cold fingers reached out and over John’s warmer hand. He put his finger on top of John’s, offering him just the right amount of support. Together, they clicked ‘Send’.


	9. Doom

It started so simply as catching Sherlock on his laptop playing Doom, something that had made John laugh a little bit, even become shocked at how good Sherlock was at it. 

Three weeks later, Sherlock was on his own laptop with a pile of games stacked up beside him and his laptop near complaining about how much it had to do. Sherlock had been up all night, playing Oblivion with near obsessive concentration.

John didn’t mind all that much, because for once he could just put a meal in front of Sherlock and the man would blindly eat it. John would often sit beside him and just watch him play games, finding pleasure in just being able to share in his excitement and enjoyment.

Things turned weird when three weeks later, John was woken in the middle of the night from a call from Mycroft who sounded as if he had a frown on his face from the displeased tone to his voice.

“Sherlock hasn’t been replying to my messages. He hasn’t been in contact with, Gregory Lestrade. Is he quite well?” 

“Uh… yeah, yeah… lemme go check…” John grumbled, nearly falling out of the bed as he untangled him from his sheets.

“I do apologize if I woke you, I’m a bit of a night owl.” Mycroft replied, not sounding sorry in the least.

John grunted a reply, yawning wide as he walked zombie like down the stairs. Frowning, he looked on the sight in the lounge as if he was looking into a madhouse. 

Sherlock had a bowl of Cheetos on his lap and a controller tight in his pale hands, his eyes focused on the television screen as he guided a character through a maze of tunnels, muttering words under his breath. Mostly telling his attackers to die in the most colourful language.

“I… uh… I’ll have to call you back.” John said, hanging up before Mycroft could say anything.

Sherlock didn’t look up from his game as John sat beside him. In fact he didn’t realise he wasn’t alone until John put his hand on the back of Sherlock’s. Tired and dry looking eyes rolled from the screen to John.

“Did I wake you?” Sherlock asked, his voice creaky.

“No, your brother did. He’s worried about you.” John said softly.

Blinking his tired eyes, Sherlock frowned a little bit and looked confused. Checking the time, he felt rather shocked. 

“Its… three in the morning…” Sherlock whispered, his eyes wide.

“Yes, you haven’t stopped playing games in two days.” John said, worry in his voice.

John ended up prying the controller out of Sherlock’s hands and turning the console off, leaving the room darkened. Half picking Sherlock up, John got him to his bedroom and into bed, smiling affectionately at the obsessed detective. Sherlock curled up with a groan of comfort, nuzzling the pillows.

“John… I didn’t mean to get obsessed. I was just so bored.” Sherlock whispered.

“I know, Sher. Just… everything in moderation, okay?” John said softly.

Sherlock gave a little smile and nodded, his eyes closing as he drifted off into a sleep that would last half a day. John hid the games console.


	10. Garden

“You’re abandoning me?” Sherlock demanded in a cold manner before John had even shucked his coat.

“You what?” John asked, frowning a bit when he saw Sherlock was on his laptop.

“You have a ticket to Nottingham booked on the train for next Wednesday.”

“Well, I did tell you last week that I was going to my mums.”

“Oh! Well then, I might join you.” Sherlock said brightly.

John stared, his eyes a little wide and his mouth falling open. Before he could protest, Sherlock had booked himself a ticket and had a look of glee on his face. John had to sit down before he could fall down.

“Why… why do you want to come with me?” John asked, his voice just a little too high.

“Well, I thought it might be a nice break for you and I could do with getting away for a few days.” Sherlock said, not looking up from the laptop screen.

In truth, Sherlock just wasn’t ready to be on his own for a week yet. He had been by John’s side more than ever these past few weeks, like John’s personal shadow. But he would never say that. He had an inkling that John understood it, even if the doctor was flapping his mouth in disbelief right now.

* * *

  
Sherlock had liked trains as a young boy and he was bouncing on his heels as he waited for John to come back from the café, his suitcase in hand and John’s sat beside him. John had finally come to terms with the fact that this visit to his mums would have the added bonus of Sherlock. His mum had been delighted at the prospect of having Sherlock coming to stay too, she’d wanted to meet him for a long time.

John reappeared looking harassed, handing Sherlock his coffee and swearing as he burnt his fingers on the cardboard of his tea cup. Boarding the train, they took their table seats and John couldn’t help but give a little smile as he looked around. Sherlock had bunked them up to First Class and John had to admit, it was a damn sight better than the economy seats.

There was a copy of The Times waiting for them already and John settled down to tut over it and do the crossword, while Sherlock was content with looking out of the window. Lunch was nice, just a salad for John because he knew his mum was going to go overboard when he got home and try to feed him up. She would have a fit when she saw Sherlock.

Nottingham was busy, Sherlock sticking close to John while people hurried by on their commute home. In less than an hour they were picking through afternoon traffic to get to John’s childhood home. It was a lovely place and Sherlock felt slightly jealous that John had had such a normal childhood.

John’s mum was a dumpy looking woman, shorter than John and it was clear that he had inherited her smile and dark blue eyes. She hugged her son tight round the middle and John hugged her back fiercely. Before Sherlock could protest, or John could warn her about his strict no touching policy, she had her arms around Sherlock in a tight hug too. Sherlock didn’t complain though, he just smiled awkwardly and patted her on the shoulder.

“Its… lovely to meet you, Mrs Watson.” Sherlock said graciously, taking her hand and kissing it delicately.

“Oh, and the same to you. John, you never said he was such a gentleman. A… skinny gentleman. Come in, come in. We’ll soon have you fed up.” she grinned, brimming with joy.

Sherlock gave a little grumble as he was pulled inside, really not wanting anything to eat, but far too polite to protest. John helped his mum make tea, looking out over the garden and frowned a little bit.

“Its looking a bit raggedy out there, mum.” he said gently, leaning on the counter.

“Well, not had my big strapping boy home to weed it for me, have I?”

“I can do it after tea if you like?”

“And the tall chap can help you. Boy looks like he’s never done a hard days work in his life.”

John gave a little smile and said nothing. It wouldn’t do any harm and to be honest, he was looking forward to Sherlock’s reaction to having to weed the garden on what he was thinking was a break from work.

* * *

 

“This is horrific, John…” Sherlock said, his cheek smeared with dirt and his eyes slightly narrowed.

He looked adorable in his flowery gloves, the clothes Mrs Watson had dug out for Sherlock making him look like an overgrown little boy, the shorts too big and the shirt a little bit too small. He was sweaty and a bit sunburnt, his hair damp from the hard work he’d been putting in. In a word, he was miserable.

John smirked and just shook his head, tackling the hedge with a pair of clippers to get it into a neat little box shape.

“Do stop moaning, Sherlock. You were the one so eager to come here.” he said with a chuckle.

Sherlock made a rude gesture with his gloved hand which earned him a clip round the ear hole from Mrs Watson who had the ability to appear at the worst moment. John gave a laugh at Sherlock’s affronted look as she began to lather him in sun cream. It was something that he recalled from his childhood, her rubbing cream into his arms and face. Now Sherlock was getting the same treatment.

Face softening, John watched as his mum mothered Sherlock as if he were one of her own. She’d never got on with any of his friends before, but she had taken a real shine to Sherlock, he could tell by the fond smile on her face.

“Come on then, dears. Come and have some lemonade. You’ve done a fine job.” Mrs Watson said with a beaming smile, her hand gentle on Sherlock’s back as she lead them to the patio.


End file.
